Falling Coin
by Yma
Summary: A surreal and stylistic short fic about the relationship of Lucciola and Dio. One shot. Heavy on the imagery and in a very odd style. An attempt to capture of DL dynamic.


Falling Coin. 

What can be said of us? We who flew upon broken wings? Our harsh calls echoing the swan-song of both comrades and enemies. All for us… all for us.

We were together, two sides of the same coin as the surfacers would say, but we were not equal. No coin upon our edge, were we, nor one upon its slide. Head facing the sun, tail in shadow but there… always there… No… we were one flung into the skies, left to fate and chance.

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I was born to be at your side, made for it. There is no sadness in this, no bitterness. It was merely how it was. I find comfort within it. I know my placement. I know who I am. I am Lucciola. A firefly. Flying Light you called me, ironic. For you are the light, flying free and I am merely a moth, trailing after you. You burn my wings, but there is no grief in that either. It is merely your nature, your place and my duty.

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The coin twists and turns in the light as it is flung. Chaotic and beautiful, that moment of uncertainty when all bets are off. We lie in the lap of chance, she strokes our hair tentatively with sharp fingers and we pretend we were born with hope. We are always twisting in the air shining with light, and the hot sun alone loves us.

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In the Guild Palace everything is cold, crisp and clear. I'd have splitting headaches as it sliced into me, selecting and cutting and placing until my mind freezes and shatters like a mirror. There is no slow sweet boundary there, no sanity, no joy. But you warmed me. You who should have been colder still, followed and held and touched me with the comforting grace that comes from servitude. You melted me, turned me to slush, and everything was warm and fuzzy and good. Sometimes, when the cold and sharpness and frustration was too much I called for you. Then you would envelop me like a blanket as a lay there, feeling the shape of your ears, the grain of your hair. Soft and sweet as steady until the apex. A kiss to finish; I found I tasted of tears.

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At our height we are perfect, hovering in the sky, dark and light spinning gloriously. Is this what we are? What we were meant to be? Light and dark shining intermittently in the sky, waiting for the end. Waiting for the fall?

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I had my identity. I am his servant(friend). My duty was to keep you from falling(flying), all was simple and clear, like blood and water. Then Immelman flew before you. then the Sylvana came, Then I was thrust into a room full of butterflies with you. You danced and laughed amongst them, trying to capture them with your hands, scarcely succeeding, forgetting you duties, your place. But what was I to do? I who was but a moth… your shadow, dull and shy. How could I compete with butterflies? I found myself secretly longing for the dark, for your wings to be clipped, for you to settle. Perhaps then I could stand by you. Stand, and not be burned… though the light would forever be dimmed.

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The descent is slow and languorous at first. Like summer sun or sweet sex, slipping through our thoughts and dreams, insidious poison. We are falling… helpless? Perhaps if other choices were made… but we are as we were meant to be, and if one side is guilty then so is the other. We should have paid more attention, should have known our place better. We could have chosen our place. But now it has been chosen for us.

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As I grew I learned your heat was not enough. It failed to warm me through, it failed to burn and scorch and char. I longed for your flames, for the passion within. But your face was still and your soul clear water to me. I tested your heat, cruelty/kindness are as one to me, definitions lost and blurred. What does it matter anyway? There is no difference for you. I kiss and touch, or slap and cut. I could kiss you, bring you to heights of pleasure, or crunch glass between you fingers… your eyes remain the same. Always the same.

Years ago, in the aviary, I would I pluck the feathers from live birds. Slice off their feet and slash their skin. It amused me, kept me occupied. And in the moment, hovering between despair and death, resigned and begging for their doom, their screams died and, cocking their heads, they would look at me with dulled eyes.

Their eyes are your eyes.

And for that I hate you.

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The decent speeds, we spin in the air, blurring with our loss, dichotomy broken. Perhaps we will know our places before all is through, know them by their loss. But for now we are two half of a broken coin, knowing the other side intimately, yet utterly oblivious of our selves.

Love is too simple a term for our bond, too pure for the white corruption of the Guild.

And we are falling.

We are falling.


End file.
